


In the Temple Ruins

by Feynite, LycheePit



Series: Banana Fics [1]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Ancient Elves (Dragon Age), Asexual Character, Fantasy, Feynite Fanwork, Multi, Polyamory
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-05
Updated: 2018-12-04
Packaged: 2019-09-07 15:25:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16856533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Feynite/pseuds/Feynite, https://archiveofourown.org/users/LycheePit/pseuds/LycheePit
Summary: A couple of modern elves stumble on the ruins of an ancient elven temple, and stir up the interest of the forgotten god inside...





	In the Temple Ruins

It has been a long, long time since a living elf entered Tasallir’s temple grounds.

The place is such a disaster that it pains him. He has been slumbering beyond the veil for ages, but the temple is still his anchor to the Waking World. Once a pristine and beautiful set of grounds, fit for summoning the God of Order, it has since fallen to utter disrepair.

There was a time when Tasallir’s whole being would vibrate with the desire to correct it. To sweep the floors, to scrape the grime from the walls, to change the water in the fountains. Such work was never his, but it is  _needed_. The last offerings rotted away upon his shrine. The walls have since rotted, too. Falling to the teeming jungles around them, giving way to waterstains and cracks and vines. Overgrowth encroaching in a place once thoroughly tamed. The fountains dried up and the roofing collapsed inwards. The rotted offerings turned to dust, wind scattering leaves in their place. Animals taking up residence, living and dying and leaving their bones to litter the once-holy grounds, until even those are gone. So many times over.

There  _was_  a time when Tasallir’s whole being would vibrate with the desire to correct it. But with each passing year, the lack of worship and devotion weakened him. His name no longer falls from mouths in prayer. His existence beyond the Veil feels fragile; fading. And the mess of his shrine feels less like an unreasonable encroachment of chaos, and more like a different sort of Order. The inevitability of time, stripping away all things. Even himself.

His temple has become his tomb.

And then he feels it.

The soft thudding of a heartbeat. The gentle, distinctive padding of footsteps. There is no mistaking the elf for an animal. Tasallir is aware of all things which happen on his grounds, and so he sees her immediately; small and wide-eyed. Young, so  _young,_  with red hair tied back, and strange clothes adorning her frame. A pack slung over one shoulder. Hands dirty from the wild growth, with a cutting blade belted to her hip. The sort for cleaving through overgrowth.

She looks at his temple as if it is a thing of beauty. As if it is as it once was; regal and magnificent, and not a ruin devoured by the wilds.

Her feet are protected from biting insects by a pair of dirty boots. Tasallir supposes it does not matter that they touch his dirt-strewn floors, but the resignation aches. Like fresh blood drawn by the unexpected breath of hope. Some others have found his temple over the years, but none ever lingered. They only took things, stripping away the last remaining treasures, coming back just to see what more could be stolen.

One had even tried to take the head off of his statue. He had enough strength to repel the effort; and then the thieves had left, babbling and frightened, and had not come back again.

That was long ago.

The new visitor walks through the main chamber. She stares at the vines upon the walls; she stares at Tasallir’s statue, with its features muddied by time. Her footsteps carry her to the edges of the dry fountains. She spies some plants growing in the light of some collapsed roofing, and kneels beside them. An excited exclamation escapes her, as she begins to gather several.

Tasallir holds no claim over the weeds. He does not mind if she takes  _those._

When she has satisfied herself with her cuttings, she puts her pack over her shoulder again. Wandering until her footsteps bring her to the base of Tasallir’s shrine; beneath the Symbol of Order, which has since crumbled to an unrecognizable degree.

“It’s a shrine,” she murmurs.

Tasallir feels a prickle of relief as she reaches out with careful hands, and begins to pull away stray detritus. Cleaning off the shelf, and righting the cracked offering bowl. She pulls back some dead vines, that had overgrown towards the altar during a particularly verdant season, only to perish slowly over the following years. Pulling a segment of her jacket sleeve down to her hand, she wipes the altar’s surface until it is…

Well, it is not quite shining. But it looks far brighter than before.

After a moment, the young elf stands back. She takes in the full picture of the shrine. Tasallir feels the touch of kindness. Like the pass of a damp cloth across his brow; gentle fingers pulling away sticks and thorns from old and scarred wounds.

The youth pulls a bright coin from her pocket, and places it into the offering bowl.

“For safe passage,” she requests.

Tasallir is not the God of Pathways or Journeys, but as the young woman leaves, he does what he can to clear some of the way. A tiny tremor of will, and the detritus on the temple floor clears in a straight path towards the exit.

The young woman halts, staring.

She looks around the temple.

Tasallir does not know if she will back, as she makes her way slowly down the cleared floor, and out of his ruins again.


End file.
